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| someone listen to my story made from the streets but only meant for the street, a dime a dozen |
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| White Walls Gallery |
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| Don Witz, "horse" |
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| Don Witz |
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| Morgan Slade, "High and Lonesome" |
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| pay your two tokens to shuttle your body to another place and time On my way to a place with the blackest walls not meant to showcase art, a place where rebellion is praised upon, a hidden place in the cold dark streets of torn apart and ignored San Francisco, where the brave walk through grotesque visual life to see something meant for the streets; The White Walls Gallery. Walking with a sea of people where there is no feeling of great fear as I am protected by a fortress. With the type of weather only found in dreams in the coldest month of the year. San Francisco, a place where things can seem to become a little backwards at times. With no worry from any harm, I pay the man his handout of my two tokens to another place in time. Sitting down to enjoy the show on a warm hard plastic memory before my time. Everyone starring into giving so much pleasure to get them away from the idea where they’re on their way to be. Boxes create our spaces as tension begins to rise in that tomb meant to shuttle bodies. Exiting the cold veins of this city with so much life on a day where we all can look into that visually pleasing color of the soft blue sky so far away. As I brought back from the dream of the sky from a tug on my shoulder from a lost sole or component is asking for their handout from me as well. With no green anywhere to be seen that is a free as we should be I pass by the Gallery and Studio of Minnori Yato “City of Green.” I look into her eyes as we remember together with so much difference of age and time. As history tends to repeat itself time and time again with our past’s beginning to align with a world that forces a curve to all where an idea of time becomes flat again. As the blue begins fade outside of this small beautiful energy of art I found myself in, I have to tell her that I must leave and continue on this day. The streets begin to cool as my destination appears in sight. I rush to door to escape my created sadness for those approaching me. Opening the gated door of The White Walls Gallery that gave a feeling that it is trying to keep the street from flooding in but could be meant to keep the street from pouring out. With all of it’s rebellion still in tact as the walls become white again. The floors are covered in drips of assorted paints that create a perfume that can only attract art enthusiasts. Feeling warm again from walking out of such a hellish environment not meant for anywhere and forced upon the streets into a place of my heavens not meant for any family that welcomes the streets. Now just hit re-wind and I will be home safe with this memory locked in time. |
